


No Job Too Small

by liodain



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Attempts Were More Successful, Light Angst, M/M, Non-Sexual Discipline, misdemeanors, mouth soaping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 00:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21637975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liodain/pseuds/liodain
Summary: "I'm lax with you," Shaw says, drawing his belt knife. "I know that. But you can't expect to speak to King Greymane in the same manner and walk away uncorrected."
Relationships: Flynn Fairwind/Mathias Shaw
Comments: 17
Kudos: 39





	No Job Too Small

**Author's Note:**

> Sunday tidbit ❤
> 
> This one definitely needs a second part to resolve my feelings, if nobody else's /o\ idk when that'll be, though.

It's raining out, a miserable grey drizzle that has soaked everyone present to the bone. The open fire in the Harbourmaster's office is roaring and the air is stiflingly hot and moist, making this already disagreeable meeting even more so. Having so many high-ranking individuals in the same small room together puts Shaw on edge. There is only one exit to keep an eye on, but there is only one to escape from, too. 

As soon as the last of their number deigns to arrive and the latest round of negotiations on Kul Tiras' rejoining the Alliance can get underway, the better. Today it's seaway and docking privileges. Edifying.

Fairwind's loitering nearby, leaning against the hearth and in an animated conversation with Fordragon's girl, looking all the world like he belongs here. If Harbourmaster Cyrus doesn't chase him out soon, Shaw will. He's preparing to do just that when Genn Greymane finally makes his entrance. 

There's a brief lull in conversation, and Fairwind's voice carries on far too loudly. "Ugh, do you smell wet dog? What smells like wet dog?"

Taelia Fordragon stares at him wide-eyed. Greymane's hackles go up. 

"What?" Fairwind says. "I'm just saying, it's a very distinctive—" 

"Commander Wyrmbane." Greymane is visibly bristling. "See that this man is disciplined."

Harbourmaster Cyrus straightens up as though to interject. Fairwind is under his authority insofar as he's under anyone's, and it would deal a severe blow to negotiations from the outset if Cyrus were to object.

"My Lord, he's not enlisted with—" Cyrus begins, ignoring Fairwind as he glances around the room, hopefully feeling some trepidation at the upset he's caused.

"I don't care," Greymane growls. "See to it."

Cyrus looks to Wyrmbane. Wyrmbane looks to Shaw. Greymane follows his gaze with a raised eyebrow, and just like that, Fairwind has become his problem. Shaw suppresses a sigh.

There's little love lost between him and Greymane. Shaw is forever tempering his tendentious inclinations as diplomatically as he can, and he knows Greymane's all but earmarked Shaw's position for his daughter, besides—and without King Anduin to calmly intervene, Shaw suspects he won't be able to deescalate the situation. 

So. 

"I'll take care of it," he says.

*

Shaw escorts Fairwind onto the _Redemption_ and into his cabin. He has an air of sheepishness about him but is generally unrepentant, as is usual. 

"So, what's it to be," he says. "A flogging? Five across the rear, sir, please and thank you."

"You're a thorn in my side," Shaw tells him. He sets a pitcher of water on the floor, opens his wash kit and takes his bar of soap from it. "What were you thinking?"

The answer is, of course, that he wasn't. Shaw doesn't often raise his voice, much less shout, but the urge rises in him like a physical thing. He wrestles it down. Fairwind only shakes his head and shrugs lackadaisically, watching as Shaw takes off his gloves and lays them neatly beside the pitcher and wash kit. He has no idea what's coming to him.

"I'm lax with you," Shaw says, drawing his belt knife. "I know that. But you can't expect to speak to King Greymane in the same manner and walk away uncorrected." 

He begins to shave thin curls of soap from the bar, collecting them in his palm. Fairwind's smile capsizes. Perhaps he has just realised that Shaw takes his duties seriously, and that he isn't going to be let off with a stern word and a slap on the wrist this time. He goes as though to sit on Shaw's bunk, but Shaw stops him.

"Stay standing," he says. "Feet a shoulder's width apart. Wider. Good. Hands behind your back, if you please."

"No job to small, huh," Fairwind says, clasping his wrist in the small of his back. He swallows.

"I do what's required of me."

Shaw wets his fingers and takes a pinch of the soap shavings. They soften between finger and thumb. He grips Fairwind's jaw and applies pressure until he opens his mouth.

Fairwind tracks Shaw's fingers as they rub the soap into a foam. "Don't tell me," he says, failing to keep his tone as light as usual. "This is gonna be worse for you than it is for me."

"Assuredly not," Shaw replies.

Shaw has had this done to him a time or two, but not since he was a child, full of young pride and eager to impress. It had always gotten back to Grandmother Pathonia when he had been talkative about Guild business. She had been matter of fact about carrying out his punishment. Stern but not unkind. He had quickly learned to keep his tongue, and thus kept his tongue. In turn, he has administered it to SI:7 cadets, though infrequently, and usually as an example.

It has been a while since. Shaw rubs his fingers along Fairwind's tongue and the insides of his cheeks, working the soap into a good lather. Fairwind endures stoically, though he wrinkles his nose. A flush rises on his face, but Shaw doubts he's enjoying himself. 

The soap shavings have warmed and softened in Shaw's palm and become malleable. He presses some of them into the flat of Fairwind's molars. Fairwind makes a tiny choking sound, his tongue sliding against Shaw's fingers. His breath begins to hitch. The last of the shavings he rubs onto Fairwind's teeth. By now he's trying not to swallow, his throat convulsing with the effort, and his saliva is making the soap froth from his mouth. It dribbles into his beard, and he coughs. Suds fleck Shaw's uniform. 

"Be more mindful of what you say, and to whom," Shaw says, softly enough it could almost be beseeching. "I don't want to have to do this again."

Fairwind stifles another cough and finally swallows as shallowly as he can. His mouth is pulled in a miserable grimace; tears shine in the corner of his eyes that Shaw chooses to believe are from managed anger or the burning unpleasantness of the soap. To his credit, he keeps his chin up and his hands behind his back.

"Pull yourself together," Shaw says more neutrally, and turns away because he suddenly can't bear to look at him. He takes the pitcher of water and a dented enamel mug from his desk. His hands are slippery with soap and spit. "Come with me." 

He glances over his shoulder just as Fairwind goes to wipe at his mouth, in time to make a sharp noise to deter him. Fairwind drops his hand and Shaw leads him out and to the aftdeck, past a handful of crew and several Alliance soldiers. Further embarrassment for him, but it will ensure word will get back to Greymane that the choleric old bastard's demand has been satisfied.

Up on the deck, he pours Fairwind some water and hands him the mug. "Rinse your mouth and spit," he says. Fairwind does, leaning over the rail to retch it out into the ocean. Shaw pours him more water and repeats his instruction, and again, until Fairwind shakes his head and wipes at his eyes and nose with the back of his hand.

"Yeah, I think I'm about done here," he says wetly.

"You're done when I say you are." Shaw pours him the last of the water. "Drink."

Fairwind gulps it down, his throat bobbing, and then doesn't seem to know what to do with the mug. Shaw takes it from him before he tries to balance it on the gunwale.

"I can still taste it," he mutters. "Light, I won't be able to wash my face without thinking of your fingers in my mouth."

Shaw suspects he may actually be incorrigible. "It'll fade," he says, and before he can stop himself, wipes at his own mouth. His hand smells overpoweringly soapy. He takes a short breath. "Captain—" 

"I got it," Fairwind says. "I got it, don't worry." 

I know, Shaw wants to say. But I want you to get this, too: you can still speak freely around me. However, he knows that may only serve to undermine his lesson, and if that were the case, it would render it a punishment without purpose. Shaw doesn't care to be that kind of cruel, and if he can allow himself a sliver of honesty, he has no desire to break Fairwind's spirit.

Instead, he rests his hand on Fairwind's shoulder and gives it a squeeze.

The smile Fairwind offers him is half-hearted, but a welcome playfulness has started to creep back into his voice. "Could've been worse," he says. 

"Next time it might be," Shaw says, and watches with distant regret as Fairwind's face falls again. His hand remains on Fairwind's shoulder until the man musters up some eye contact, then Shaw gives him a curt nod. "Captain."

Fairwind heaves a sigh in response, and a long moment later, realises he's been dismissed. "Spymaster," he says, takes a step back, then turns and leaves.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt [mouth soaping](https://fail-fandomanon.dreamwidth.org/370393.html?thread=2163163353#cmt2163163353). Yeah, I wasn't expecting it either.


End file.
